My sister pedaled ahead on her new bigger bike. I pushed my feet down on the pedals as hard as I could to catch up. My forty something body disappeared as I neared her back tire—it suddenly turned into my seven-year-old self, yelling “Let’s go!”

Gleefully the adventure began with my sister leading the way, warning me about obstacles on the sidewalk and preparing me for hills ahead.

I pedaled three or four turns to keep up with her one long push and glide. I didn’t know where we were going. I just knew it was someway my big sister had discovered. Someplace I had never been.

We zigzagged through the streets. We crested the hill. We made it!

We looped back towards the way we came and as we zoomed downhill, she warned, “one more hill ahead.” I panted and fell behind. My sister back pedaled in place at the top, waiting to lead me home.

“Stop the car! Get out of the way! Move over! Let someone else drive and you can watch the view,” he ranted after she absent-mindedly made a wrong turn on her way home. She begrudgingly slid across the bench seat and sat in the silence for forty years.